There’s No Doubting Rupert’s Lad Hedley Thomas – He Can Spin a Yarn Wider Than a Warnie Leg-Break and Faster Than a Northrop Loom – And Leave No Casualty But the Truth

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Hedley ‘Doubting’ Thomas – the National Chief Correspondent (acronym NCC, ain’t that an irony) for Rupert Murdoch’s once mighty national daily newspaper The Australian – is the envy of every journalist across the length and breadth of the Wide Brown Land.

It’s not because he has been awarded journalism’s prestigious (well, allegedly prestigous) Walkley Award four times, or because he scaled the profession’s Everest and won the Gold award in 2007.

Nor is it because he is one of (if not the) highest paid journalists in the land, pulling in a reputed substantial six-figure salary courtesy of his willingness to play his piper Mr Murdoch’s tune.

And as surprising as it seems, Doubting’s colleague’s envy is not even due to him having been awarded a doctorate from the most prestigious non-University in the land, the august and highly respected JSchool, where 30 grand will but you an online Diploma of Journalism and not much else, because it’s the only qualification on offer.

No sportsfans, it’s not any of these things.

Journalists envy Doubting Thomas simply because he’s a genius. A genius at the art of doing nothing, and making it look important. Of spinning a nothing story into something, and pumping the hell out of it for over a year, in the process making himself appear to be the busiest journalist on the face of the planet.

Just look at the myriad of stories Doubting has crafted from pretty much nothing.

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Let’s be honest, you have to admire this bloke who can spin a story about a few self-righteous private school nobs who spat the dummy on Facebook about being kicked out of an indigenous space that they had no right to be in into a series of stories that keep him in well paid clover for over a year. It’s a dead set work of art, the art form of course being the art of avoiding real work.

How the hell does the ace reporter do it? That’s a story for another day. One that involves a tawdry tale about queer association with a Queer Customer. We’ll tell it in the not too distant future too, don’t you worry about that.

 

For now though we will tip our hat to Doubting’s brilliant skill at appearing to be doing something other than avoiding real work, and his amazing ability to twist a tale in tighter knots than Chubby Checker can on a dance floor.

Let’s be honest, who else could turn a damning judgement replete with a $40 000 plus costs order into a tear a minute sob story?

No-one but Doubting, that’s who.

Check out this tear-jerker of a quote from Alex Wood that Doubting’s penned:

“I don’t have the money to meet these costs. I don’t think she has the money to pay more than $200,000 for the three students’ costs. There are no winners in this case.”

If Doubting was talking about Clive Palmer being unable to pay court ordered costs he would be calling him every name under the sun. But because it’s one of the Sunshine Boys whose beat up story has allowed him to avoid any real work for a year the once great journalist just pulls out the violin and plays it larghissimo..

F*ck the slow, mournful refrain. Let’s talk facts instead.

Alex Wood took an action seeking costs against Susan Moriarty, the lawyer representing Cynthia Prior, the applicant in the now infamous Evil 18C case that has sparked so much faux controversy thanks to Doubting’s protracted attack on Prior’s lawsuit.

Wood did so in the knowledge that if he got dusted he could be up for costs.

He got dusted. And is now up for costs. 40 plus grand’s worth.

Boo hoo. You pay your money you take your chance. Unless of course you don’t . Pay that is. Because someone else does.

Mr Wood said it was wrong that his lawyers were unlikely to be paid their significant costs by Ms Prior due to her financial limitations while he would have to take a bank loan and ask for public help to pay Ms Moriarty’s legal bill.

Public help?

I’ll bet my house that soft-hearted Rupert – the bloke who hacks dead peoples phones and throws thousands out of work – declares Wood’s self=proclaimed destitution a travesty and comes to the party with the cash. C’mon, who wants to throw their money up and try to prove me wrong?

Not Doubting, that’s for sure. He’s too busy penning pearlers like these:

Mr Wood’s solicitor Damien Bourke said he was “extremely disappointed to find that Alex hasn’t recovered any of his costs in defending himself and is now being pursued for costs”.

“Alex’s costs in defending his comment and now responding to an appeal application are substantial — in excess of $100,000,’’ Mr Bourke said.

Now a fair dinkum journo with an abiding commitment to a balanced story would do the following:

(a) Ask how a 1st year graduate engineer on no more than $70k a year before tax could possibly take a case costing over $100k, given that solicitors the length and breadth of the Wide Brown Land demand a huge dump of dollars into their trust funds before they kick off such speculative type litigation

(b) Ask why Woods has changed lawyers

(c) Question how the $100k figure Wood has allegedly racked up in costs can possiblyt be correct, given that Cynthia Prior was ordered to pay his former barrister Michael Henry the exact same sum. Wood doesn’t owe it to the millionaire lawyer tax avoidance lawyer Henry, Prior does

(d) Highlight the fact that the order for Prior to pay costs is only 8 weeks old, and that she has time to pay Wood the costs ordered by Judge Jarrett of the Federal Magistrates Court, which means of course that while Mr Bourke’s statement above about his client’s failure to recover costs may be technically true, it is at the same time horse sh*t because the deadline for payment by Prior is yet to be reached

(e) Actually spend at least a line or two explaining the Judge’s reasoning in awarding costs to Moriarty payable by Wood. Then the mug punter reading The Oz might realise that Wood isn’t as hard done by as he’s painted, but rather is a victim of his own poor decision to take action seeking costs against Moriarty and failing.

Doubting of course has done none of the above, because this whole 18C palaver isn’t journalism, it’s a political campaign against those that he and his boss perceive to be left wing Labor lackeys. Moriarty, Gillian Triggs, Tim Southphommasane and Susan Anderson (Prior’s barrister – each of them at some stage of their careers linked to the ALP – these are the real targets of Doubting’s never ending story about a storm in a teacup.

This is what it’s really all about. Don’t be a mug and delude yourself otherwise.

Freedom of speech?

My f*cking arse.

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Good Advice These Days is Hard to Find – So Please Be Gentle With That $40 000 of Mine – Sorry, Yours

Run baby run better move on it

Everybody gets out before they get hit

It don’t look good on the face of it

Now anyone who, like me, has been sued by a half-baked f*ckwit or three knows that as long as you are prepared to stump up at least a grand an hour for a barrister and upwards of 10 bucks a minute for their instructing solicitor you are sure to be offered a forceful – but oft feeble – legal opinion about whatever matter it is that you have paid so handsomely to seek supposed expert legal advice about.

I well remember the occasion back in the days when the world was wide – and my innocent but erroneous respect for the legal profession was wider – that I myself paid a couple of grand to a Queer Customer (QC) for the privilege  of being told that I was on the  wrong track in relation to a certain matter, and that I should settle it for a lousy few grand that would quickly be swallowed up in legal bills, although neither my solicitor nor the Queer Customer quite clearly spelled out the latter.

In fact the inevitability of my legal fees outstripping the advised settlement wasn’t actually mentioned at all, but having passed the year 7 maths exam at Geebung State School I could quickly do the sums myself, and so it didn’t take  more than a second or two for me to say to Mr Barrister ‘Hey Jim, you are a f*cking moron and so is the c*nt of an instructing solicitor who mistakenly believes that I’m going to pay him $600 for the rare privilege of walking me to your office to cop sh*t advice too’.

Confident in my own legal ability, and kicking myself for ever being so stupid as to be conned by the so-called gun solicitor into questioning it, I took the case myself and guess what? I kicked it baby, higher than a Jonathon Thurston bomb.

The final result?

$61 700 net in my back sky rocket, and SFA to the wankers with the LLB’s.

Archie 1 – Legal Profession 0.

It’s therefore a shame that young Alex Wood – defendant number 4 in the Section 18C racial discrimination case taken against he and 6 others by former QUT staffer Cynthia (erroneously and repeatedly called Cindy by the press) Prior – didn’t seek my advice before he followed that of his lawyers, for he’d be more than 40 grand better off if he had, and wouldn’t have lost all that sleep wondering where he was going to get the 800 pineapples from to pay his now court ordered debt.

You see Woodsy, presumably on the advice of his solicitor Damien ‘Dig Tree’ Bourke and/or his barrister Anthony Collins, got cocky after successfully defending Prior’s claim, and in the immediate afterglow of his repelling the assault of the legal invaders made the hugely unwise decision to seek indemnity costs against highly respected solicitor Susan Moriarty in relation to her role in pursuing Prior’s claim against him for allegedly breaching Section 18C of the Racial Discrimination Act.

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What are indemnity costs?

Basically they are a legal term that most punters don’t understand, so lend me your ears for a second and in relation to Woodsy’s claim against Moriarty I’ll break it down for you in simple terms that even Jean Jeannie the juiced up junkie from Geebung can understand.

In  essence Woodsy – or more correctly I suspect, Woody’s lawyer or perhaps even the invisible hand of a Queer Customer directing the lawyer – alleged that Moriarty had, on Prior’s behalf, pursued a case against him that didn’t have a hope in Hades of succeeding. A hopeless case in effect, an absolute dud, one that had absolutely no legs and simply Buckley’s chance of succeeding.

If he was right it meant that, for reasons unknown, Moriarty had taken Prior’s case to court knowing that it couldn’t win, and as a consequence had caused him to incur a poultice in legal fees that he should never have had to spend. Set aside the fact that Woodsy is unlikely that he would ever have to pay a cent in fees to his lawyers because Rupert’s mob have it covered, and run with the hypothetical scenario that the expenses are his and his alone.

In this imaginary world where he pays his own legal fees pretend for a moment that the court finds that Moriarty had cost him money by taking a totally merit-less case, and decrees that she should have to pay Woodsy the entire amount that he had spent defending her client’s claim against him, and then some on top.

That’s indemnity costs.

The converse of the situation is that if Woodsy’s assertions about Moriarty jacking up a clam against him were found by the court to be total crock, then he would have the decision awarded against him and have to pay Prior’s lawyer the costs that she racked up defending his spurious claims, which in the event proved to be the case.

Alleging that a lawyer has run up a hopeless case is, in the ordinary course of events, an extremely serious brick to throw at a practitioner who has taken an oath to love and serve the law, but it is an even bigger stone to throw at a practitioner who is not only widely regarded as one of the Pineapple Land’s foremost experts in discrimination law, but was in 2015 bestowed with the honor of being named Australia’s number one Employment Discrimination Lawyer.

As you can see Susan Moriarty is no monkey when it comes to this type of litigation. .

Woody’s lawyer Damien ‘Dig Tree’ Bourke is no monkey either, at least not in his specialist field of advising  corporations and law firms on how to avoid paying tax. In fact Dig Tree has been a raging success in his area of legal expertise, and his innovative approach to leaving the communal load sharing burden to the poor suckers paying GST has resulted in a number of precedent setting cases in which he has relieved his client of the inconvenience of .having to write our a check marked ‘ATO’.

He’s a reasonably good lawyer alright is Dig Tree, don’t you worry about that. Izzy Folau’s a good footballer too. But the dual international superstar played Aussie Rules like a crab, and likewise Dig Tree does discrimination law about as well as Dumbo Does Dallas.

As any long-serving punter will tell you all of life is 6/5 against and a matter of horses for courses. Accordingly, if you want to go to your grave regarded universally as a success then you really should just stick to what you’re good at and do it well, just as the champion racehorse of the 1990’s Chief De Beers did. The steed won 2o races and a million and a half bucks, and all of the gelding’s wins were at the  Doomben racetrack. He just couldn’t find the line anywhere else, and unless it was a big money race he didn’t try.

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Horses for courses. Stick to the still pool if you can’t surf the waves.

But the overconfident and utterly misguided Dig Tree swam too far out to sea, so far that he became the man in Stevie Smith’s poem who wasn’t waving but instead drowning. Delirious from the lack of oxygen that results from a lung full of salt water, Dig Tree advised his client that Australia’s best discrimination lawyer was only trying it on with the Prior case, which he wrongly assessed as having no merit, and thus he told Woody to go her for the rent and make her pay for the trouble she’d put him through.

Go the cow for costs Dig Tree said, and like a good clueless client Woodsy did.

But Dig Tree'[s bearing proved to be as accurate as his namesake Robert O’Hara Burke’s, and his client got burned. Big time. Judge Jarrett declared that although Prior’s claim against Woodsy failed, it wasn’t lawyer Moriarty’s fault. There was a case to be argued for Prior and Moriarty argued it, and although her client lost it was simply a matter of the cookie crumbling the way of the defendant Woody, not one of the cookie being a snowflake that melted in the sun in the heat of the court’s summer glare.

To break it down into layman’s terms, Judge Jarrett – a Redmond Barry type who anything but a bleeding heart – basically said Woody was an absolute wanker for trying to claim indemnity costs against Moriarty, finding that she was simply doing what lawyers do, which was prosecuting an arguable case on behalf of her client. To put the kindest spin possible on it the Judge said that Woody’s claim was misguided, and decreed that it had cost Ms Moriarty a poultice to defend, both in the cost of her own time and in terms of the cash she had to pay her counsel.

Moriarty, he said, was doing the job that she was paid to do. Why should she end of out of pocket?

The simple answer? She shouldn’t.

Woody was ordered to pay her costs. All $41 336 of them.

Dig Tree said he was “extremely disappointed to find that Alex (Woody) hasn’t recovered any of his costs in defending himself and is now being pursued for costs. (His) costs in defending his comment and now responding to an appeal application are substantial — in excess of $100,000’’

What Dig Tree didn’t say was that the advice he gave to his client was sh*thouse, and had cost Woodsy 40 grand plus on top of the 100 grand that he already bled him to defend a case that the lad could have settled in a heartbeat for just 5 grand. He didn’t offer to pay the 40k that his crap advice had cost Woodsy either.

Funny that.

Woodsy’s barrister Anthony ‘Semi’ Collins didn’t offer to pay the 40 large either. All he did was try to justify the ridiculous case his client took against Ms Moriarty by claiming again that her case was crap, despite Judge Jarrett having already found clearly to the contrary. Was he saying that Judge Jarrett is a misguided fool? You can be the arbiter of that, but it’s difficult to sketch an alternate hypothesis.

Of course Semi made no mention at all of any appeal against the decision that he reckoned was crook. That would be too logical. It was easier and cheaper – not to mention more  beneficial to himself – simply to say the Judge’s call sucked, and leave it at that. Heaven forbid that an appeal judge might get his or her claws into it and declare that it was Semi and Dig Tree’s advice that was shite, not Judge Jarrett’s findings.

And so Woodsy is left with a 40 grand hole in his pocket, and no-one to pay it but him.

Or maybe not, because I reckon The Australian undertook from the get go to pay his costs. This accords with my long held and oft pronounced theory that the whole Evil 18C campaign has been a crock from the start, a total abuse of the court process that has been bankrolled by Uncle Rupert with the singular aim of selling more copies of the paper.

So am I right or am I wrong?

It’s a 40 000 dollar question.

Let’s email Doubting shall we and see if we can find out? I’m sure the brave defender of freedom will set us straight. After all, it is the truth that sets us free.

Watch this space for his reply.

Just don’t hold your breath.

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The Hottest Decision in the Whole Wide World – He Wuz Robbed!

Oh my goodness.

You thought the decision in the Jeff Fenech – Azumah Nelson ‘I wuz robbed’ fight in Caesar’s Palace back in 1991 was bad.

You were right. It wuz.

But this one’s worse, a whole lot worse.

Anthony Mundine has been crucified.It’s the greatest robbery since Ronnie Biggs and the boys hit the Royal Mail loco in ’63.

We all focused on the fighters and forgot about looking at the judges. Who the hell were these fellas, particularly the clown who scored it 98 – 90 to Green? Was it Stevie Wonder? Ray Charles perhaps? One of the Blind Boys of Alabama? I’m sure we are about to find out in the coming days.

I love boxing, with a passion. Have followed it since my Grandfather took me to BrisVegas’s long gone Festival Hall 40 years ago to watch The Man’s father Tony knock Bad Boy Rolle back to the Bahamas in a daze in three. My video shelf is packed with tapes of all the great fights going back to the Joe Louis ‘bum a month’ days at the beginning of last century.

I can’t throw them real well but I can score them. So believe me when I tell you that Mundine won this fight in a canter. No question about it at all. He won at least 6 of the 10 rounds, possibly seven; was all over Green like a rash after the first two rounds, picked him off like a stealthy spider picking off a half-drunk fly, peppered him with shots for 8 rounds. Witnessing Green cop a beating was like watching a flailing man drown.

Yet somehow he was awarded the fight. What a joke, what a disgrace.

Mundine will wail. He will cry foul, and scream that he wuz robbed too. He will cream racism, claim that he lost because of the color of his skin. He is right too, but no-one will listen for he’s the boy who cried wolf, The Man who shouted the same thing from the rooftops when he lost on points to Daniel Geale in a fight in which he was smashed to smithereens by a younger and sharper fighter.

He was wrong then, but he’s not now. Mundine WUZ robbed tonight, and it’s an absolute travesty.

Oh woe is me.

Where does Australian boxing go from here?

UPDATE: The writer scoring the fight for The Australian got it nearly spot on in my view, giving the bout to The Man 6 rounds to 4. I had it 7 to 3, our only point of difference being round 3 which The Oz gave to Green and I gave to Mundine.

 

Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? – The Truth About the Evil 18C Section of the Racial Discrimination Act Unveiled – Or Why Punch Drunk Penman Shouldn’t Be Lauded as Lords of the Writing Ring

For more than a year now The Australian newspaper – led by its chief national affairs in BrisVegas correspondent Hedley ‘Doubting’ Thomas, the Anthony Mundine of the journalism world; and ably assisted by the Churchie child sexual abuse holocaust denier and sometime lawman Tony Morris QC, or as old Horace used to say Queer Customer – has been thumping the tub about the bogeyman known to frightened kiddies from Kenmore to Cunnamulla and back as old Evil 18C.

If you believe what you read from Doubting in the Oz – and admittedly most don’t, the broad consensus being that he’s a fighter on the slide who like The Man is headed rapidly downhill in the direction of wash up – the  you’d be dead set convinced that the greatest threat to freedom in the free world are not fundamentalist terror-wielders with a fondness for the privations of the dark ages, or raving loonies living in big White Houses,  or even once-respected writers who are so punchy that they’ve forgotten how to spell objectivity.

Oh no, according to Doubting and the Queer Customer the rampaging Grim Reaper of freedom wrecking are none of these frightening folks – they’re apparently mere tadpoles dog-paddling in the pallid dregs at the bottom of the totem pole of tyranny.

The real threat to humankind – the dastardly covert assassins on a mission to destroy democracy, massacre the Murdoch empire, and utterly annihilate the sports fan’s right to call a spade a bloody shovel, or Sambo if they choose – are nine simple lines contained in a dusty document designed in a crop circle on top of a hill in the middle of nowhere, halfway between Mrs Macquarie’s chair and Ned Kelly’s noose.

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It’s the Evil 18C that’s the true enemy you see.

That goddamned devil disguised as decency that purports to prevent the everyday punter from exercising their birthright as a descendant of illegal immigrants to call a bloody black bastard of a boxer a boong, or nickname a neurosurgeon from Nigeria nigger, or describe a dentist from Dakhar as a darky. For the love of all things creamy and good, these days a whiteous war hero from Wangaratta can’t even call a common Chinaman chinky thanks to the bloody evil freedom-wrecking 18C.

It’s just not cricket cobber, not according to Hedley and the QC anyway, and if we don’t give the evil 18C the Big Bash and smash it for six immediately well then the apocalypse is nigh and the world as we know it will come to an end before tea on the first day-night of the pink balled Gabba test.

There’s just one wee problem punters. .

Doubting and the Queer Customer are full of sh*t.

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Yes, that’s correct kiddies, the pontificating pair of free-speech protectors are pulling your bloody chain, yanking it even harder than the hollering out the side of their pie hole spivs that are spruiking the Mundine-Green shot pug fiasco as the fight of the century are tugging your wide-eyed and innocently ignorant rug .

Allow me to illustrate the truth of that which I tout by casting aside the crap you’ve been peddled for a precious second and allowing me to ask you a simple single question sportsfans:

How many complaints did the much criticised Australian Human Rights Commission (AHRC) receive under the Racial Discrimination Act last year?

561.

And how many of these were made under the Evil 18C?

Just 116.

Let’s compare free speech apples with free speech apples shall we?

How many complaints did the Press Council – the association whose objects are to promote freedom of speech by ensuring  responsible reporting, and ensuring adherence to high standards of journalism and editing – receive during a similar 12 month period?

3751.

More than 32 times as many as were made to the AHRC under the Evil 18C section of the Racial Discrimination Act.

We don’t hear Doubting and the Queer Customer shouting from the rooftops about that particular fact, do we sportsfans? Funny that.

How many complaints to the Press Council were adjudicated and upheld?

75%, or approximately 2820.

How many 18C claims were upheld?

2/3 of sweet f*ck all.

The dynamic duo have told us about exactly the same amount about that telling statistic as well. That’s a bit odd too isn’t it?

Why aren’t these lions of freedom roaring about the number of media stories that have been judged to be dodgy – a perversion of free speech – over the same period that all but a mere handful of 18C complaints were upheld, and ipso facto according to the logic of the dynamic democracy defending duo threatened public order and freedom?

Of course it’s merely a rhetorical question, for the answer is self-evident. The press sleuth with the sexy salary package and the occasional columnist with the oddball views on school leaders letting students get sexually assaulted while in their care don’t want to piss in their own backyard, or more correctly in that of the piper who pays or promotes them and thus calls their tune.

Rampaging Rupert Murdoch is a protected species, and self-published criticism of the content of his fish and chips wrappers is not allowed. Informing the paying public that an average of approximately 8 stories that they read each day are a crock of crap doesn’t sell papers.

But bagging a little-known and much misunderstood government established authority, and nine little lines contained in an obscure piece of hitherto largely unknown legislation does. And so the Human Rights Commission is fair game, and section 18C becomes the evil harbinger of the freedom-free future that awaits if we do not cast those little 9 lines into the all consuming abyss.

Some people call this type of queer campaign-style reporting quality journalism.

This little black duck calls it craven crap.

What say you sportsfans?

Speak now before the Evil 18C silences your voice forever, and a thousand fairies wings flutter and 50 score of little green guys and girls all named Tinkerbell fly up from the bottom of the garden and gobble up your kids.

Just like the pedophile teachers at Churchie did.

 

Something Old, Something New; Something Borrowed, Something Blue

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I copped a brand new sledge today,  which is a beautiful thing,.for the day that you learn nothing is the day that you have wasted, and at my age there aren’t too many left to waste let me tell you.

‘Go F*ck Your Hat’ is the sledge in question, and if you don’t know what it means then your far from alone; but fear not for Dr Google has the answer to everything, no matter how inane it may be.

This is the something new.

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A bit harsh I hear you say?

Nah, I’m as silly as a hat full of arseholes. Always have been.

That’s the something old.

The sledge itself is one of those idiotic Americanisms that halfwits who can’t speak Australian pick up off Facebook, the online school of all things inane for imbeciles.

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That’s the something borrowed.

And the blue?

Picking a fight with Archie.

It’s a common mistake, but not an easily forgivable one..

Drugs are for losers Sir Slimy Sledge.

And you are without doubt one. Might be time to lay off the illegal stuff, pick yourself up out of the gutter, let your hair down, lighten up and have a bit of goddamn fun Francisco.

You never know, a natural high might just put an unexpected smile on your dial, and make you look a touch less ignorant despite your uneducated but erstwhile abuse. See senor, at the end of the day it doesn’t matter whether you put your right foot or left foot in your mouth and shake it all about, your foot’s still stuck in your gob ain’t it Geronimo, whether you’re flying high as a kite in Geebung or cozying up to a cone on a canal at the Goldy.

And it’s pretty hard to f*ck your hat while you’re standing on one leg.

Not Now, Not Ever – Yeah Right,Whatever – What Does A Psycho Ex-Partner Have To Do To Be Kept in Custody? Kill Someone?

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The single stem of the flower signifies the isolation felt by victims of domestic and family violence. Its watercolour treatment evokes compassion and sensitivity. The bouquet on the back cover represents hope, and the belief that domestic and family violence is our community’s responsibility. To victims and survivors it says, ‘you are not alone.’

Yes you are.

You are alone during the years that you are subjected to horrendous psychological and physical abuse.

You are alone when the perpetrator of the abuse enters your home, binds and gags you, bashes you unconscious and drags you by the hair across the floor.

You are alone when the Magistrate who was appointed to protect people like you from the horrors of domestic violence and abuse releases your attacker on bail, despite the objections of the police and the bruises all over your body.

You are alone and there are no witnesses, and the madman who will stop at nothing in his deranged quest to hurt you has no criminal history.

You are alone when just weeks later he kills you.

And now your kids are alone.

Forever.

It’s not normal.

Life wasn’t meant to be like this.

Only 15 months ago former Governor-General Quentin Bryce delivered a report to the Government that was supposed to end the senseless violence, the terror and the fear.

359 pages long it was.

https://www.communities.qld.gov.au/resources/gateway/campaigns/end-violence/about/special-taskforce/dfv-report-vol-one.pdf

It may as well have been written on the back of a postage stamp.

Victims of domestic savagery are always alone.

They call it child abuse, or spousal abuse, or family violence, or whatever.

The titles are bullsh*t,. preconditioned terms that precondition us to believe that the perpetration of heinous criminal acts in a domestic setting is somehow different than the infliction of violence against a stranger.

It’s not.

The only difference between the drunken thug who king hits a kid in the Valley and the deranged one time lover who king hits their ex, and then sticks the boot in, is that the one punch coward is in jail on remand, while the multi-punch generally (but not always) woman bashing coward gets bail.

One can’t kill, the other can.

And does.

You are alone.

You cower and live in fear alone.

You hide alone.

You die alone.

Not now, not ever?

Whatever.

A Rose by Any Other Name is But an ALP Political Pawn – I’m Sorry Miss Jackson Are You For Real?

‘English Rose’ Jackson, the daughter of ABC journalist Liz Jackson – who graduated from the Inns of Court School of Law in London – was once famous in Labor circles for being a vacuous airhead who didn’t know the difference between a pavlova and Ivan Pavlov, the pioneer psychologist who uncovered the  conditioned response (see above).

Now, just 7 years later she’s the party’s NSW Assistant Secretary, but judging by her outburst published in a recent edition of The Australian, a fair minded observer would have to say that English Rose’s grip on reality doesn’t seem to have improved much during the period of mirror-breaking bad luck.

Neither it seems has the straight, white, female, factional appointee’s grasp of basic facts or her ability to self-reflect, for in a rambling polemic no doubt aimed at increasing her profile ahead of her inevitable entry to the NSW Parliament via an ALP Electoral College factional deal, English Rose – the textbook example of a factional career climber – has lambasted the structure and form of the the State ALP, slamming it as sexist, ­homophobic, too white, undemocratic and highly factionalised.

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It’s dead set the classic case of ‘do as I say, not as I do’ hypocrisy from a hack who jumped straight from university into well-paying union jobs and influential roles in the ALP, primarily because she was young, female and a pin up girl of the left faction, although it was really more of a case of do as I sort of say anyway, because about 3 seconds after she makes this gushing and obviously heartfelt outburst English Rose, as she is wont to do when breathing in high altitude media attention air, becomes confused and dizzy and forgets the basic premise of her argument.

Unable still to steer the prosecution of a simple argument from barrier to box, the beneficiary of high-powered ALP patronage all of her adult life reverts to the Pavlovian reflex conditioned during the heady days of her august career in university politics and stoops to the barren-soul revealing depths that all self-proclaimed Labor feminists, no matter how ostensibly wedded to the cause of the advancement of women they may be or at least say they are, ultimately stoop.

She attacks the chicks on the other team.

Not the blokes – the birds. Calls them absolute f*cking morons, which is pronounced ‘lacking sense’ in upper class Eastern Suburbs private schoolgirlese, that language spoken by the over-represented minority group whose parents can afford to shell out 30 grand plus a year to give them a leg up over the mass of daughters of dirty unwashed working class stiffs who once were as sure as eggs to grow up and vote Labor, but these days throw their votes to Hanson or Howard or any idiot who is either like, or prepared to lower themselves to pretending that they are like, them.

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These are the folk that swing elections, the birds who became Howard’s battlers and kept the unlikeliest of ladies men Little Johnny in power for all those years. These are the sheila’s who shanghaied Pauline back into Parliament, or into the Senate at least, but many of these ladies who left school at 15 don’t really understand the difference.

I’m sure English Rose would accuse me of being a c*nt of 27 different varieties for saying the above, but that’s ‘cos she’s a political idiot who is far out of touch with what should be her core constituency that she’s closer to the moon than they, and clearly doesn’t have a clue how to read an election result, either booth by booth or seat by seat or even bloody across the board.

On the other hand, and said with due modesty, I know how to read the card, and have won every campaign that I’ve managed bar one in the outer satellite suburbs of Darwin a few years ago, but when your defeated independent candidate pulls double digits of a zero base and gains enough votes that his preferences will decide the government then I don’t count it at too much of a loss at all.

Yep, my candidate could have flipped the bloody whole Northern Territory government and would have too if only the then Labor leader wasn’t such a venal, corrupt, aggressive, abusively threatening and useless imbecile that it made it absolutely unpalatable to hand her our preferences, and so we didn’t, and thus the north was won.

More importantly however, I am eminently qualified to comment on these spunkrats lack of political nous, because unlike English Rose I grew up with the good lookers who swing, and I still enjoy their company at the Bunger and other local footy clubs and RSL’s within a fifteen buck cab ride of the Geebung Polo Club.

English Rose though reckons that she knows better. She says bugger the battlers, what NSW Labor should be doing is chasing the dragon, and the Greeks, and the Lebanese, and all the other culturally and linguistically diverse group of Australians new and old who live in ethnic enclaves and are unable to speak our lingo, as if the party hasn’t been doing so for decades anyway.

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Heard of Eddie Obeid, bringer of the Lebanese votes anyone? What about his mate Joe Tripodi, Australian born but a conduit to ethnic voters?  Or Iranian born Sam Dastyari and his mate Mark Arbib, the son of Libyan immigrants? And wasn’t there recently a bilingual NSW Premier named Morris Iemma? And a Canadian called Kristina Keneally, who spoke some bizarre language from out of space that no voter could understand?

Let’s not overlook the current caucus of NSW ALP MP’s either.

Anoulack Chanthivong, born in Laos.

The Sudanese born Egyptian Edmond Atalla.

Jihab Dib, brother of the boxer Billy, both formerly of Lebanon.

The son of Jewish holocaust survivors Ron Hoenig.

Nick Lalich, born in an Egyptian refugee camp.

Walter Secord, son a full blooded Native American of the Mohawk-Ojibway people, born on a reservation in Ontario in which he spent the first 17 years of his life.

The son of Sicilian immigrants Guy Zangari.

Sophie Costis, daughter of Greek parents who found post-war peace in Australia.

The list goes on, and if like me you are beginning to suspect that English Rose is yanking the wrong chain about better engagement with culturally and linguistically diverse communities, then you are not alone. It leaves one to wonder whether English Rose simply a moron who fails to see the obvious contradiction in her argument, or whether she is simply pushing a barrow that she hopes may one day carry her directly into pre-selection for a safe seat.

It’s not poor English Rose’s fault though. It’s all those bloody factions with their narrow, partisan interests that are absolutely ruining the ALP. Someone should do away with the bastards.

Someone just like English Rose.

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The Butterfly Single Handedly Brings Down Another Pedophile – Kiddy Fiddlers Be Warned – You May Fool the DPP But You Can’t Fool Archie – We Will Never Rest Until Your Evil Activities Are Exposed

 

rawwlyIn October last year I was horrified to learn that a germ who had crept into Geebung under the cover of night had been released on bail after being charged with child sex offences committed in central Qld a few years before.

Horror turned to outrage when I discovered that the germ’s bail conditions allowed him to continue to practice his claimed profession as a photographer of young dance school students – kids aged between 6 and 16 – as long as he had another person with him ‘supervising’ his work.

This bloke gave me a bad feeling, a really bad one. He just didn’t look right, and his story didn’t ring true. I had so many questions, and so few answers. Who really makes a living out of taking photos of kids at dance classes? Why was he granted bail? What if the other person supervising him was a fellow kiddy fiddler? Who would protect the vulnerable children?

This needed to be investigated. Due diligence had to be conducted on the germ to establish the level of threat that he posed to innocent children..

And so we set to work.

Within minutes we discovered information that made us vomit.

This piece of sh*t wasn’t a full-time photographer; he was on the dole.

He didn’t just work with young dancers; he was a volunteer for a bullsh*t kids program peddled by a dodgy happy clapping church who had been awarded government contracts by fellow bible basher Tim Mander, the loon who aspired to lead the LNP and take us all down the road to perdition.

My gut feeling was confirmed. Something was wrong here, very wrong indeed, but still I felt there was more, so I kept on looking, and then I found it, and suddenly my head started spinning like a top.

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The germ was a member of an international child porn ring. He published photos of nude children on his website, and traded them with others across the globe. And that information was gleaned just from the public sections of the sick sites he publicly displayed under his own name. You could only imagine the snaps and videos of exploited children that were hidden in the members only section of the demonic sites.

This bloke who dared to sully the great Geebung name had clear and demonstrable ties to notorious known pedophiles and filthy child sex website operators across the globe. And the DPP and a District Court had allowed him to walk free on bail.

‘No f*cking way’ I screamed out loud, so loud that my wife and kids came racing to see what was wrong. I told them: I was a victim of abuse myself, and knew full well the horrors that awaited other wide eyed kids with the whole world in front of them if they fell prey to a predator like I did. The truth about this germ had to be told, and I decided to tell it.

I started writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote, and after much deliberation I published pictures too, each of them a reproduction of the images that the man walking free on the streets of Brisvegas had published on websites around the world. The images were gut wrenching. Naked little girls, nude young boys, kids of all ages shot in such sexually suggestive poses that only a pervert could view them without retching.

How did the crown prosecutors, with all the available resources at their disposal, miss this? God knows, but they did. They put the pervert back on the streets, and allowed him to continue to take naked photos of little girls and boys. He had to be stopped before he ruined even more lives.

I referred my research to police.

They took it seriously, and began to investigate.

This is the result below.

Some days I feel really, really good about the work that I do.

Today is one of them.

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